Chapter 8 - Standing Tall
Gasps echoed throughout the room. Arthur Pendelton gasped, rising slightly from his chair. Vanessa dropped her espresso cup; the porcelain shattered against the marble floor, splashing hot dark liquid across her pristine white designer shoes. She stumbled back, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror.
Martin backed away from me as if he were looking at a resurrected corpse, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.
“Your... your legs...” Daniel stammered, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeak. “You were... you were paralyzed!”
“My legs were never broken,” I said, standing tall at six-foot-two, looking down at them like a judge delivering a final verdict. “The car crash was real. The sabotage on my brake lines was real. But thanks to my security chief, I survived unscathed. I played the invalid for one reason only: to see who would stand by me when I was down, and who would sharpen their knives to carve up my corpse.”
I looked at Vanessa, whose face was completely contorted in shock and horror.
“You called me a useless cripple, Vanessa,” I said coldly. “You told me I was nothing. You sat in my house, drank my wine, and laughed with my enemies about sending me away to a sanatorium so you could steal my life.”
“Victor... baby...” Vanessa stammered, taking a trembling step toward me, her hands raised in a desperate, pleading gesture. Tears began to stream down her face, ruining her heavy makeup. “I... I didn’t mean it! I was just... I was under so much stress! Martin and Daniel forced me to say those things! They threatened me! You know I love you, Victor! Please... remember our wedding... remember our future!”
I looked at her with pure, unadulterated disgust. “Save your performance for the courtroom, Vanessa.”
I turned my attention to Martin and Daniel. Both men were dripping with cold sweat, looking frantically toward the exits.
“You thought you were so clever,” I said, stepping closer to them. “You thought my accident was your golden ticket. But while you were celebrating my downfall in my own living room, my security team was intercepting your communications, tracking your off-shore bank accounts, and building an airtight criminal case against you.”
“You can’t do this!” Martin shouted, his voice cracking with desperate rage. “I am your uncle! I am family! You can’t ruin your own blood over business!”
“Family?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Family doesn’t sabotage a car’s brakes. Family doesn’t try to steal a legacy. You stopped being my family the moment you decided to treat me like trash.”
I pressed a button on the conference phone at the center of the table.
“Marcus,” I commanded. “Bring them in.”
May you like
The heavy oak boardroom doors swung open once again. This time, it wasn’t a maid or a wheelchair that entered.
It was four federal agents in dark suits, accompanied by my head of security, Marcus, and six armed police officers.
